The Improbable Theory of Ana and Zak (21 page)

Everything hurts. Everything. Each ache reminds me
of a different injury, from my sore balls where Boba Fett kicked me, to my black eye where Luigi Vampa pistol-whipped me.

I look at my companions as we walk from the car toward our hotel. Ana's still wearing that weird cloak, Clayton's still got that long jacket on, but they otherwise appear normal. Me, all my clothes are in tatters. I'm thirsty, tired, and guilty of felony drug possession.

And it was so worth it. Especially the parts with Ana. Lord, what a night.

A bank clock tells me it's not yet 7:30. We've got
plenty of time to freshen up before we're supposed to meet Brinkham at eight. I try to come up with a way to spin this evening's activities in a way that won't get us in too much trouble. Or at least place all the blame on Clayton.

Roger stops when we reach the hotel doors. “I guess this is where I say good-bye.”

“Already?” says Ana. “You're not coming to the tournament?”

“Yeah,” says Clayton. “Stay for a couple of rounds.”

Roger looks at me quizzically. Again, I'm overcome by a wave of unhate.

“At least come in and have some real coffee.”

He nods at me and I smile back. It's amazing how much you can grow to like a guy when he drives the getaway car.

A woman carrying a box of doughnuts and a bottle of water walks past us. I hold open the door as she enters the hotel, and we follow.

As we come into the lobby, I'm surprised to see that she's still standing there, looking at us. I'm even more surprised when my brain focuses in on the face.

It's Mrs. Brinkham.

She's still staring. More than half her team has just walked in off the street, looking like they've been out all night partying. She sets down her doughnuts.

“Ana? Clayton? Zakory? What's going on?”

I instantly shoot a finger toward Roger. “The nice stranger said he'd give us candy if we got into his van.”

“Zak!” shout Roger, Ana, and Clayton.

I smile. “This is my . . . my stepfather, Roger. He's in town on business and took us out for an early breakfast. Roger, this is Mrs. Brinkham, our quiz bowl sponsor.”

“Ma'am.” He half salutes her.

She's not buying it. “Ana, I received a very disturbing call last night. Your father says your grandfather is in fine health. So I have to wonder, where the hell were you three last night?”

I attempt damage control. “Just a little misunderstanding, Mrs. B.”

But then Clayton steps forward. “It's all my fault. I snuck out. Ana and Duke tried to find me, and then we didn't have enough cab fare to get back. We had to wait for Duke's father to pick us up. I'm sorry I lied about my grandfather. I didn't want Ana and Duke to get in trouble. But it was all me.”

I'm kind of touched by the kid's honesty, but Mrs. Brinkham looks anything but convinced. “What did you do to your face, Zakory?”

I shrug. “Football game.” Roger coughs, though it sounds like a suppressed laugh.

My teacher shakes her head. “Zakory, I should have
known you wouldn't take this tournament seriously. Though I have to say I'm surprised at you, Ana and—”

Ana interrupts. “We were with a responsible adult, everyone's fine, and we're back in time for the tournament. So let's not make a big deal about this, okay?”

I'm impressed at how Ana is suddenly no longer afraid of anything. Though out of all of us, she's the least guilty.

“It most certainly is not okay, young lady! The three of you get up to your rooms. I will be calling your parents.”

“Um, right here,” mumbles Roger.

“And you, sir, ought to be ashamed of yourself—”

“Hey, Roger didn't do anything!” I yelp.
Since when am I so protective of him?

“Zakory, I will deal with you later.”

“It's not his fault, Mrs. Brinkham,” says Ana. “Stop blaming him.”

“Ma'am, the kids are okay. What's the big deal?”

“Hey guys,” chirps the desk clerk. “Could you keep it down?”

“Get back to your rooms now, before I decide we're going to forfeit!”

“I didn't want to be here in the first place!”

“Seriously, lady, I know you were worried, but—”

“I never should have let you on the team, Zakory.”

“He saved our butts yesterday!”

“C'mon, folks, people are still trying to sleep—”

“You don't want me on the team? Fine!”

“Don't take that tone—”

“QUIET!” It's a loud, buzzing, mechanical voice.

We all turn. Clayton, who's been watching the exchange in silence, has barked out the order through that artificial voice box. He stands there, alone, staring at all of us with kind of a weary, disappointed look on his face.

“Where'd you get that thing?” I ask.

“Everyone, please calm down,” says Clayton through his mouth. “Listen.”

He then gets his foot caught on the tail of the coat he's wearing. He tries to right himself, slips, and tumbles, face-first, into a marble-topped table.

We all rush over. Ana kneels by her brother.

“Clayton?”

He sits up with a groan. Blood trickles out of his mouth.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I'm . . . uh-oh.”

He pulls his upper lip back. There's a large gap where a tooth used to be.

Our heads turn to the floor, where the long white incisor sits in a puddle of red. He didn't break it—he
managed to knock the whole thing right out of its socket.

Mrs. Brinkham and the clerk are both groaning, probably imagining a lawsuit. Ana is grabbing at her hair. Clayton still looks stunned.

“Don't panic.”

It's Roger. He bends down and picks up the tooth. “If we get him to an emergency room, they can reset it. You.” He points to the clerk. “Get some milk.”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you deaf? Milk! A big glass, right now! And a Baggie of ice.”

Moaning, the man runs off in the direction of the dining room.

Clayton, who seems the least concerned of all of us, spits out a wad of blood. “Why milk?”

“Believe it or not, it's the best thing for preserving missing teeth, severed fingers, or torn-out eyeballs.”

Ana looks at him oddly.

“I do the books for half the hospitals in Tacoma. I've picked up a trick or two. C'mon, on your feet, boy.”

“You're an accountant?” I ask.

Roger is helping Clayton stand, but he pauses to look at me. “You really didn't know that?”

My mother married both an insurance man and an accountant. Did she have some kind of fetish?

Roger is talking to Mrs. Brinkham. “I'll take him to
the hospital. And I'll call his parents, tell them about the accident. None of this is your fault, I'll make that clear.”

She nods, miserably.

“I'm going with you,” says Ana.

“No,” mumbles Clayton through the hand he's holding against his jaw. “We'd really have to forfeit without both of us. You stay.”

“But . . .”

“Stay. Talk to Mom. Tell her it was all my fault.”

The clerk returns with a milk carton and a glass of ice. Roger drops in the tooth and adds the milk as a chaser. He takes Clayton by the arm and walks toward the door.

“It's going to be okay!” he repeats.

“Be careful, Clay,” calls Ana.

Her brother turns and smiles a gap-toothed grin. “What, me worry?”

Then they're gone.

Mrs. Brinkham stands and glares at us. Oh, how I miss the flustered, clumsy health teacher I thought I knew.

“You understand that if it were not for Landon and Sonya, we'd be returning home right now.”

We both nod.

“Good. Go get dressed. Rest assured, we will discuss this later.”

Ana and I begin to slink out of the lobby, but she has something else to say.

“Answer me this, and truthfully. Did you guys really stay out of trouble last night?”

“Mrs. Brinkham,” answers Ana. “We were at a comic book convention. Snooze city.”

Our sponsor nods, relieved. We climb into the elevator. Ana hits the button.

“And as it turns out,” I add, as the doors close, “the gun wasn't even loaded.”

I can hear her screaming my name as the car rises.

“George Orwell.”

Zak is mumbling so much I'm afraid the judge will ask him to repeat himself, but he simply awards us another ten points.

The timer buzzes. Against all odds, we've done it. We've made it to the very final round. Without Clayton.

The other team captain growls a forced congratulation and the judge calls for a ten-minute break. Zak's head instantly flops onto the tabletop, and within seconds, he's snoring.

I sheepishly grin at Sonya and Landon, who have answered three questions between them this whole
morning. They look at me with quiet respect. Mrs. Brinkham has done little to keep her anger bottled up inside, and they can tell we lied about going out last night. To them, we're badasses.

It's hysterical to think that exactly one night ago, I would have felt the same way.

I move a curl of hair off Zak's face and resist the urge to kiss his cheek. Even with that stream of drool running out of his mouth, he's kind of cute. I'll have a talk with him about the goatee later.

Our next opponents boldly walk in. It's St. Pius, a wealthy Catholic school. All their team members are dressed in identical navy blue uniforms. They join hands in a prayer circle.

I nudge Zak. He awakes with a start and nearly falls out of his chair.

“Son of a bitch!”

After a moment he regains his bearings and realizes that everyone is staring at him. He smiles at the opposing team's sponsor. “Sorry, Sister.”

In the front row, Mrs. Brinkham facepalms.

Everybody takes their places. A girl on the other team wishes me good luck. I nearly give her the finger before I realize she's sincere. This lack of sleep is doing strange things to my head. I take a deep breath.

One of the judges launches into his spiel. This round
is for the championship. This one is for everything. For the win. To make Mrs. Brinkham slightly less pissed off.

We can do this. I can do this. I'm awake. I'm focused. I'm . . .

Screwed.

Just as they're closing the door, three people sneak in. I'm pleased to see Zak's stepfather, followed by Clayton. He grins at me, showing that they've somehow successfully put his tooth back.

And here's Mom.

Yep, she ices in right behind my brother. Prim, upright, and frowning dangerously. I think the nun from the other team looks more laid back.

I knew I'd have to face her, but I was kind of expecting the confrontation to be this afternoon. Nope, just like Dad threatened, she's driven out here to punish me. The fact that Clayton was injured is just icing on the cake.

She sits in the front row. Our eyes meet. She shows absolutely no reaction. I wonder if I'm already dead to her.

“Hey, Ana, how about a kiss for luck?” Zak is already leaning toward me. Mortified, I shove his face away. He looks at me, confused, then turns to the audience. His face lights up when he sees Roger and Clayton, then crumbles when he realizes who the glowering woman with them must be.

It's all over. There's nothing left for me to do. Nothing left but . . .

TO WIN.

To hell with everything. I came here to be a champion, and that's what I'm going to do. What we're all going to do. And no matter how much trouble I'm in, Mom can't deny the fact that I'm a winner. That I'm a daughter to be proud of. I can be brave. I can do this.

Why won't she smile at me? Why won't she wish me luck?

The game begins. The St. Pius kids are fearless, buzzing in before the questions have finished. They take a quick lead. Zak, for once looking like he's actually on the team, fights back. Sonya answers one wrong.

Screw this. I press my buzzer.

“The Thirty Years' War.”

“Correct.”

It's on. The questions come in a blitzkrieg, but none of us back down. The judge has to struggle to keep up as both teams rapidly fire off answers. Mom stares at me, unblinking, the whole time.

And then the timer sounds. I don't want to, but I look at the scoreboard.

One hundred seventy to one hundred seventy. Dead even.

The moderator clears his throat. One final tiebreaker. The entire game rests on this one answer.

“Which Alexandre Dumas novel featured a bandit named Luigi Vampa?”

My God, is it really going to be this easy?

I face Zak, who is grinning at me. The ironic thing is, if it hadn't been for that drug dealer, I probably wouldn't have remembered the villain from
The Count of Monte Cristo
.

I stab the buzzer at the same time as Zak. But neither of our indicator lights illuminate. Instead, Landon's goes on.

“
The Three Musketeers
!”

“Incorrect.”

The other team rings in.

“
The Count of Monte Cristo
?” answers an opponent, clearly guessing.

“Correct.”

Well, that's it. We've lost. We're losers. I'm a loser. We're a losing team. And now I can go face my mother in defeat and accept whatever punishment she . . .

I turn to Zak, who looks more concerned than disappointed.

The hell I will
.

I stand, nod to the other team, and join my mother.

“Ana . . .”

“Let's talk. In private.”

We leave the room. I turn back for one moment.
Duquette is watching me. He winks and then taps his chest with his fist right above his heart.

I can do this.

We do not speak until we've located a small, empty conference room. Neither of us sit.

“So what went on last night?” demands Mom.

I mentally review the wildly improbable things that happened to all of us. “What did Clayton tell you?”

“He said that he snuck off to some sort of comic book thing, and that you had to spend all night looking for him.”

I was touched by my brother's honesty. “Yes. Clayton was just curious. Please don't be mad at him.”

“I'll deal with Clayton later. You're the one who has really disappointed your father and me.”

Here it comes. “How is any of this my fault?”

She shakes her head, sadly. “Ana, you know we didn't think Clayton should go on this overnight trip. We trusted you to watch out for him. It's only through the grace of God that nothing happened to you or your brother.”

Oh, if only you knew
.

“Mom, Clayton walked out of his hotel room without telling anyone. How could I have seen that coming?”

I think I've scored a point, but I've underestimated
my mother's capacity for blame. “You should have told Mrs. Brinkham. Or called me. You had no business running around Seattle with God knows what sort of people. I really expected more of you, Ana.”

Yesterday, I would have taken all the blame and apologized. But that was yesterday. “Maybe I screwed up. But maybe I just didn't want Clayton to get in trouble. It's not like he was out drinking or something. He wanted to go to a comic book convention. We messed up, okay? But it's not a big deal.”

She shakes her head. “The fact that you don't see the problem here just drives home how immature you are being. Ana, if you can't show responsibility in a situation like this, then how can we expect you to do so away at college? After you've had time to think, we need to sit down with your father and map out a plan for your future.”

I know what that means. Another year living at home. Another year of the rules. Another year of being a slave.

Mom is turning to leave. In her mind, the conversation is over.

“I'll plan my own life, thank you very much!”

Mom just manages to hide her shock. “Young lady, I can see you're tired and upset. We'll go home, you'll get some rest, and we'll talk things through in the morning.”

So now I'm being sent to bed for back-talking? I
think back to how Zak said I only had myself to blame for letting Mom and Dad walk all over me.

“We'll discuss it right now! I'm eighteen years old! I'm at the top of my class! I've been accepted into four colleges! What the hell more do you want from me?”

“Ana—”

“I am not a baby. Neither is Clayton, if you haven't noticed. Maybe if you let him out of the house once in a while, he wouldn't have snuck off last night! Maybe if I wasn't so darn afraid of screwing up, I
would
have called you.” I'm aware of how whiney I sound, but I can't stop. I wish I wasn't so exhausted so I could make a less emotional argument.

“Stop that right now!” snaps my mother. I'm obviously getting to her—she rarely raises her voice.

“Or what?” I hesitate, then say it. “Or you'll kick me out too?”

Mom's face goes white.

“You know what it's like living like that, Mom? Knowing that if I ever mess up, out the door with me?”

“Ana, please—”

“Please what? You disowned your daughter because she screwed up. Well, she's my sister, and you robbed me of her.”

“Don't bring that up now.”

“Say her name! Say your daughter's name! You
haven't said it years! Say it now, or by God, you will lose another kid!”

I'm not prepared for my mother's hand. It flies up. I don't have time to duck, but it stops, an instant before it strikes my cheek. We both stand there, stunned. No matter what happens next, we've crossed a line. Things will never be the same.

Mom turns her back on me and walks to the corner of the room. For a long minute she stands there. I want to go to her. I really do.

When she turns around, I can tell she's been crying. She faces me.

“Nichole. My daughter's name is Nichole. My grandson's name is Levi. And if you think we've forgotten about either of them, then you're not as smart as you think you are, Ana.”

“What do you mean?” I'm already second-guessing myself, but it's too late. “You kicked her out right when she needed us the most.”

Mom winces for a moment. “Yes. We did. We were angry and scared. But did you know we called her back the next day? Did you know we invited her and her boyfriend to come talk with us? Make some plans?”

I'm shocked. According to Nichole, she ceased to exist the minute the stick turned pink. “So you started planning her life for her. Big shock.”

“You need to watch yourself. She was younger than you at the time, with no job and no money. She wanted to keep the baby. We were willing to get behind that. But she needed our help.”

“And?” I'm almost afraid of the answer.

“And she still insisted on moving in with that . . . with Peter. We would have invited the both of them into our house, but she wanted nothing more than to live on her own. And we all said some things we shouldn't have. Things you can't take back. All of us.”

I can't remember the last time I saw Mom show an emotion other than disappointment. And here she is, practically in tears.

“So you just gave up on her?” I ask.

“No! Don't you understand? We didn't! But every time we communicated, we both got caught up in what the other one was doing wrong. We were all too stubborn to admit our mistakes. All of us, not just Nichole. I . . . I tried to see her when the baby was born. She told me she'd have security throw me out of the hospital.”

I'm so stunned, I sit down. Every time I talk to Nichole, she portrays herself as the unwanted child, the martyr. I guess there are two sides to every story.

So maybe I'm not in danger of getting thrown out. Maybe I never really was.

“Mom . . . I didn't know. But I'm not Nichole, and
neither is Clayton. You can't keep us locked away at home because of one mistake my sister made.”

“I've lost one child. I'm not going through that again.”

I have to phrase this next bit very carefully. “You have to give us some space. Especially Clayton. Or it might be out of your hands.”

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn't respond.

“Let us make our own mistakes, okay? You'd have been proud of both of us last night. We're back here in one piece—well, not Clayton, but that was an unfortunate accident—and we almost won today.”

Mom shakes her head. “I refuse to believe you were only concerned about your family this weekend. I saw that boy making kissy faces at you in there.”

“So what? I'm a senior. I've never been kissed. Well, until last night.”

That almost gets a smile. “I'm sorry, Ana. There are some things I can't talk to you about.”

“Try me.”

“You really want to know?”

I swallow hard. “Talk to me.”

“Ana, when Nichole was about seventeen, I . . . I found some condoms in her purse. I wasn't snooping,” she adds. Big talk, coming from the woman who checks my phone records. “And I was going to say something,
but I didn't. I knew she was smart, knew she was responsible, and I decided it was her life. There was nothing I could do. And look where it got us. We've lost our daughter and our grandson.” I think she's about to cry again.